I'm sick of apologising for my absence, my consistent inconsistency, and so I won't. I do my best, turn up when I can. It will have to do. It's all I have.
I wrote a story for a competition on Lush Stories and, though better than the best sliced bread, it received pathetically few plaudits, a vacuum of votes, and was placed joint 53rd with an unlikely tale purportedly dictated by Satan to a second-hand car salesman trapped in a cave at high-tide somewhere near Whitby. No, I didn't believe it either. Perhaps it was a tad too tame, a little too symbolic, to take the judges' fancy. Unfortunately, as their cogitations are kept tightly pressed to their heaving chests, I'll never know.
And so to said story. The theme of the comp was 'hardcore', which opens the doors - both front and back - to all manner of fetid, unsavoury acts and substances. I did my best to keep it tasteful and thoughtful, while still including all the relevant gory genre details to meet the comp's brief brief. Here it is then, in all its gut-tingling glory.
Tunnels tracks, and trains.
'May I join you?'
His bass voice turned me to chocolate. Though the fragile wrapper remained pristine and professional, the heat of his gaze reduced the contents to a runny mess. I melted, sank and soaked into the seat. Almost immediately, he could have slid any part of himself into any part of me; I would have watched his limb's lascivious entry and would have sucked it clean on its dark and dripping egress. Though shockingly unaware of it, I must meanwhile have replied in the affirmative, as he thanked me before slotting his black attachė case into the overhead luggage rack. Tugging at the knees of his crisp grey suit, he elegantly became one with the plush seat directly opposite to me. The door slammed in response to a distant whistle and we began to move.
His appraising glance unnerved me, caused my right leg to cross over my left knee, the resultant swinging high-heeled shoe beating time with my drumming heart. Lycra whispered to Lycra, my skirt rode up, and I prayed the tops of my charcoal hold-ups were not visible. Legs uncrossed, primly pressed together and, just to make sure, were clamped together by my well-manicured hands. In an attempt to appear unmoved, I picked at a turquoise nail then stared absently through the window at the shifting world beyond.
Ears felt it first. Skin tingled. A whoosh then darkness. The rattling of tracks bounced back from enclosing walls. Lights flared. Now I saw myself in the glass. Dark-suited, white-bloused lawyer; blonde hair cut meticulously; face made-up perfectly. The canvas beneath the artwork had lost much of its elasticity, most of its smoothness, though the artist had become skilled enough to hide those sorry facts from all but the most intimate acquaintances. I chewed a lip. My searching tongue teased a morsel of breakfast from between my molars, a recurring necessity caused by a slightly impacted wisdom tooth. I really needed to sort out that gap.
Again I focussed on the glass. He was looking at me. I watched him meditate on my left shoe, saw him squat before me and remove it, hold it to his face and inhale. Now his hand was up my skirt, his other inside my blouse, while an improbable third wrapped itself in my shoulder-length hair and forced my mouth down into his groin. His flies were open; his cock fat and sleek. My slobbering jaw was all but broken by the force of his thrusts, the marauding meaty cock-head crushing my tongue and battering my tonsils. In frantic response, I grabbed and strangled his smooth, dangling scrotum and clawed at his clenched buttocks. Buttons ricocheted like bullets as my blouse tore open, scissoring fingers cut away my bra's resistance, and my slender upper torso was naked. Digits clipped onto my nipples and I screamed in pain, an essential agony that exactly suited the urgency of the moment. Crossing my legs again, I stimulated my swollen clit between a sensual combination of black lace and my own smooth slippery flesh. Incredibly, I started to cum.
Ears again were the first to find out. Then the skin. Another whoosh. Brittle rails and dazzling sunlight. The image vanished; the reverie evaporated. Beneath a sky of unbroken blue, golden rapeseed fields soothed my dry eyes. I blinked, shuffled uncomfortably, felt arousal seeping like piss from my cum-thirsty twat. It had been a long time. Too fucking long. Priority for the week ahead: get myself laid.
The girl on my right spoke first. Though obviously of legal age, it were as if she wasn't aware of that fact; her brown hair was tightly twisted into painful pigtails, while her pretty face suffered not a jot of make-up. The Latinate crest at her blazered breast spoke of privilege, of breeding, and her voice reinforced the nonchalant arrogance of that skilfully embroidered statement.
'Are you going far?'
The man looked surprised, as though noticing her for the first time, and sniffed a quiet laugh.
'Too far. You?'
Quite unnecessarily, she crossed her legs while pulling a white sock back up to its scarlet mark just below her knee. Grey pleats fanned her tight white thighs.
'Back to boarding school.'
'Lucky you!'
She pouted. Eyebrows knitted as she quickly subdued her breasts with crossed arms.
'I hate it!'
'And why is that, young lady?'
'No boys!'
The man laughed.
'Time enough for that.'
The girl stomped her feet and lisped petulantly.
'No, there isn't.'
Another tunnel swallowed us whole. The relative darkness changed him. He leered. He stood. He grabbed the girl's pigtails and pulled till she squealed.
'You really shouldn't be in such a hurry.' A glance around the carriage made sure we were all listening. 'This lot were all in too much of a fucking hurry.'
She whimpered.
'Please, Sir, don't hurt me.'
He jeered.
'You can't get fucked without pain, girl. It either comes with the fucking, comes with the parting, or comes later with the child-birth. Better get used to it, sweetheart.'
Using her woven hair like tight reins, he forced her face down into the grubby velour seat and turned her over. Her skirt was way too short; it rode up to bare her pink arse cheeks. Her knickers were way too flimsy; they tore easily between his gritted teeth. He spat the white cotton onto the floor and ogled his prize. An arm rose into the air and fell. A big hand spanked the girlish flesh. Red wheals quickly formed and intertwined. I stared in shocked wonder as her arse became an intricate map of swirling criss-crossed tracks. She was simultaneously crying and begging.
'Do me, Sir! Please! Do me with your big man's cock!'
Her tiny arsehole was obviously untouched; her slit was probably likewise, yet it was dripping, silently pleading to be violated. A fat forefinger tested her, stretched her; the middle joined its brother and opened her wider still. Ringless ring and tiny joined the fray. Massive thumb tucked in. Fuck. I could barely watch, though watch I knew I must. A silver globule of spit drizzled from his mouth. As it slowly lowered on its stretching string, he aimed it, guided it onto the rounded tip of her coccyx. Its soft cooling contact forced a sigh from the child's lips. I saw the liquid slide, pool in the puckered crater of her anus then overflow across her perineum. His intentions were clear. Even his brainless cock could sense it; visibly throbbing with anticipation, it grazed across her flesh en route to its target. She squealed again as the tip made contact. Fingers edged deeper into her young cunt and the purple bell end of his swollen manhood tested itself against her arsehole. He pushed. It flexed. He pushed again. Her body shifted under his impetus though her backdoor stayed firmly shut. He was sweating, snarling.
'Let me in, bitch. Let me in...'
Like a well-practised whore, she suddenly relaxed. Frozen by morbid fascination, I watched the fleshy rod inch inside her, watched too his bunched up hand as it drilled a torrid tunnel into her virgin innards.
Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.
